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And by that, I mean an artist. One who hears stories in the wind, who paints because it is what her soul tells her to do, who smiths because the muse moves through her fingertips, who loves nothing more than the promise of an unexplored trail, the sound of the ocean in her ears, and scent of a serious cup of coffee.

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I tell myself that I am a morning person. And I DO love waking before the rest of the world, when the sunlight is watery and the birds are just beginning to shuffle about. I love the ridiculous productivity that can happen before 10:00 am, the feeling of actually wanting lunch at noon (rather than around 4:00, which is when I usually tear myself away to eat) and feeling that the day has been full by the time the sun sets.

But the truth is, I can not keep myself from working late into the night, sipping on a tiny glass of Amaretto, pencils flying, fingers (and wrists and forearms) covered in sticky, glue-like matte medium, Jack Johnson strumming in the background and my terrariums keeping watch like portly soldiers.

These are both in progress (I know, I know, how many "in progress" items can one gal have?) but I've been enjoying working on these the last few nights. Part collage, part watercolor, soon to be mounted on panel and covered in a thick, protective layer of resin, they are loose stories of small discoveries made while walking through my neighborhood.